The Week After the Supermoon
On the kitchen table there was an old bouquet of flowers. I felt a little sorry for them and methodically removed what was dry, wilted or rotten. I didn’t know if there would be all that much left. When I was finished, the arrangement still filled a small jar, and in its spare, weathered way seemed maybe more interesting than before. The colors were softer, the arrangement a little more spacious; there was a kind of patience to the stems that remained.
I just had a birthday and I’m feeling a little like those flowers. Over the past year I’ve gone through menopause, struggled to heal from the devastation of a Lyme infection, and left the man I thought I would be with for the rest of my life. I have a suitcase worth of clothes, a handful of people that I love, my dog, and no permanent address.
The mental and physical strain has taken its toll. I’ve gotten thinner. And I don’t say that with vanity; it is not necessarily my best look. But it does feel right, like I am shedding a certain amount of excess. My body seems to be maintaining only what it needs for this turn of the wheel.
The Buddha purportedly told his followers, “Within this fathom-long body and mind is found all of the teachings.” Such a good reminder.
Earlier this month I taught the first session of a 4-week Introduction to Yoga and Meditation. It is a series that I always treasure having the opportunity to teach. Leading up to the first class this year I was having a pretty hard time, and the muscles on one side of my low back had something urgent to say. At first I didn’t listen and then, after years of being relatively quiet and content, they roared up into an angry spasm.
Anyone who has had back spasms knows just how debilitating they can be. Even, or especially, turning over in bed is a major event. Careful walking was just about ok, as was sitting perfectly upright. Demonstrating any full-on yoga pose was out of the question.
Yet there I was, my posture decidedly askew, cheerfully facing a group of the hopeful yoga-curious. In our introductory circle I learned that some had come to class to be relieved of physical pain and mental stress. How could I possibly help them? When the realities of my messy life, and my been-around-the-block body stand mockingly between me and what I think I am there to teach, what is left?
A Buddhist teacher recently reminded me that faith is considered the seed of the spiritual path. From faith, the magic of our life as it actually is can blossom. An attitude of faith suggests that whatever is happening in our lives is somehow okay, workable, and on time. Much as I would like to tell these eager students otherwise, practice does not make us immune from the suffering of age, injury, illness or heartache. But it can deepen our faith. “Look!” our practice reminds us, “This is what it is to be human. “
The morning of that first class I got carefully out of bed, lay on the floor and did the teeniest little cat and cow poses. I tried some very gentle core stabilization and then meditated in constructive rest pose. Most importantly, I did not panic. I noticed self-judgment rising up and let it go. All I could do was show up. Somehow, the class went really well and all of the students returned the following week. By then I was moving again.
Today, as yet another day fades, I look out the window of the little room I’ve been calling home, I watch my favorite season unfold. The urban gardens below me are tough and eloquent reminders of the greater natural world. Even with all the limits imposed on them, the colors are still delightful, birds and insects stop by to snack, there is movement in the leaves and some sweet sounds.
My recent birthday fell just after the October supermoon. Profound energy shifts and enormous healing potential have been promised. I hope that bodes well for the November election. Personally, I do still feel like a somewhat slighter version of myself. But I have faith that it is workable; there is still love, there is still change, there is still breath. There is still a lot left.